


You and your white pearl neck

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Minor violent thoughts, Purebloods (Harry Potter), Shaving, Stream of Consciousness, baths, excessive references to gemstones, rich people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-22 23:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16607306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Tom had always known what he wanted, but then, just for a second, Abraxas threw him off balance.





	You and your white pearl neck

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it's so long.

Tom wasn’t sure why he was here, sitting on the window seat looking at the dull outside world through green tinted glass, he preferred it to the inside world. Inside the lights were blazing and Abraxas was being particularly decadent. He was lying oh so casually in the bath, swathed in foam, arms draped along the edges, neck tipped back, hair wetted at the ends, and a smile on his face. Tom had been doing his best to ignore him, occasionally humming an approval to whatever he was droning on about. He was far more interested in his book: _gemstones and their properties_ was much more interesting than anything that spilled from Abraxas’ mouth.  
That was, even more, the case today when true absurdities and gibberish were sliding from Abraxas’ mouth. Utter rubbish about all the problems that came with being so hideously wealthy. The incomprehensible suffering of having too much money to spend. Tom half listened, and half watched, just enough that Abraxas might think he had Tom’s full attention, he didn’t. Tom might have liked Abraxas, after all, he _was_ different from all the others in many respects, but he was just like them when it came to money.  
“Tom, are you even listening?”  
“Yes,” he said not looking up.  
“You weren’t, which is a shame, I was actually telling you a rather interesting fact about diamonds.”  
Tom rolled his eyes, diamonds were practically Abraxas’ favourite subject. Tom was honestly surprised Abraxas didn’t have diamonds sewn into his skin just to show everyone he could. Though, if he thought about it, Abraxas would look pretty with pearls embedded around his throat, and silver at his collarbones. Tom shook his head to get rid of those thoughts. They were not the sort of thing he should be thinking about. Abraxas watched him smiling in a way that got him whatever he wanted. Not so subtly Abraxas draped a leg over the edge of the bathtub, fingers trailing along it in a way that could perhaps be interpreted as sensual, but it wasn’t his fingers that were so appealing. If Tom was quite honest, he was more interested in Abraxas’ smile when he looked up and saw Tom staring, than how his body looked slicked with bubbles.  
“What are you staring at?” Abraxas asked coyly, hand tucking his hair behind his ear.  
“You.”  
“And why would you be doing that?”  
“You tell me.”  
Abraxas smirked, biting his lip and repositioning himself so he could lean over the edge. “Is it because you think I’m just so gorgeous?”  
“I think you’re spoilt,” he said, not putting his book down.  
“Well now I am offended,” said Abraxas turning his head to the side and smiled a smile that was so sickly sweet, it made him nauseous just to look at it. “You love it really, Tom. You love seeing all the things I can buy, all the things I can do, just because I have a little money.”  
Tom scoffed, “more than a little.”  
“Well no one has ever had any fun by being poor, now have they Tom?”  
He rolled his eyes and got up to leave, to find somewhere he could read in peace.  
“Just because you know it’s true,” said Abraxas.  
“It’s not,” he said, stopping just in front of Abraxas, making the latter look up, howlite eyes deceptively innocent and the tips of his hair swallowed by the water.  
“I love a liar,” said Abraxas.  
“Well you’ll have to look elsewhere then,” he said going to leave. Before he could though, Abraxas’ damp hand grabbed his wrist. He stopped. Abraxas had never touched him before, and he’d never touched Abraxas. They didn’t touch each other, never. Touching suggested things that shouldn’t be suggested. Touching meant something that Tom didn’t want to acknowledge.  
Standing there with Abraxas’ hand soaking his wrist, neither of them moved. Abraxas almost seemed as surprised as Tom was, but he didn’t disconnect his hand. That hand felt like it was burning Tom’s wrist, marking his flesh with a handprint he’d never be able to remove. Forever reminding him of that moment.  
“I love a liar,” Abraxas repeated, his face so clear and bold and determined. “I’d love one sitting in here with me.” He said it with no hint of flippancy or humour, just a complete endless seriousness.  
Tom left. 

He found himself standing in the centre of Abraxas’ room, hand shaking a little, unsure for the first time in his life about what he wanted. Abraxas had looked so nice, an aesthetic angel, aristocratic, and refined, cut carefully to fit a precise patrician mould. Tom couldn’t help but look at his wrists, searching for the red fingerprints that he felt sure must have been seared into his skin. There was nothing, and yet the moment had felt so profound.  
Tom sat on the sofa, he reasoned that it was the most comfortable place, and without Abraxas, there was plenty of room. He wouldn’t admit to himself that the positioning also gave him a perfect view into the bathroom. He could hear Abraxas moving: the padding of feet across a wooden floor, the slow gurgle of draining water and the gentle rubbing of a towel in hair. It was grounding. It allowed him to think, to realise the full extent of what Abraxas had offered him. He wouldn’t deny Abraxas was appealing, definitely the prettiest of all his friends, and the richest. Having Abraxas was having his own personal bank, and constabulary, and court. It was the ability to ignore that which he did not like and to raise an eyebrow when anybody questioned it. He would like to have a Malfoy, and now he was quite sure Abraxas would rather like to have him as well.  
He sat awkwardly on the sofa, not reading, not thinking, just staring at the floor, wondering. He heard the creaking of floorboards and turned his head to look. His seat gave him a perfect view of Abraxas, now out of the bath and partially dried, standing in front of the mirror. A pale towel wrapped around his waist, smoothing shaving lather in slow circles across his face. It was hypnotic to watch the slow swirling, spellbinding, such immense delicacy in Abraxas’ hands, such dexterity in his fingers.  
Abraxas turned and definitely saw him watching, so there was no point trying to pretend he’d been looking at the frankly hideous wallpaper, so he kept staring. Abraxas returned his gaze, curious, and perhaps a little hopeful. Carefully he held out his hand offering him the razor. Tom wasn’t sure what exactly it was that compelled him off the safety of the sofa and towards Abraxas. Maybe it was the pretty blade glinting green now that Abraxas had turned off the light to fully appreciate the sun. Or maybe it was the way Abraxas was looking at him, daring him to come and do what both their hearts knew that he wanted to.  
Abraxas didn’t say anything when Tom stood before him, just a foot between them, he only handed him the straight-razor, so sharp and so pretty. The blade was engraved with flowers, it somehow seemed ironic to decorate a weapon with such illustrations of life, but he was neither an artist nor a philosopher, so he thought no more of Abraxas’ pretty razor. 

Abraxas turned away and perched on the edge of an ancient stool pulled from an equally ancient cupboard. Watching each other in the mirror, Tom could see a jitteriness about Abraxas, he was uneasy, on edge even. Finger twitching, tapping the wood of the stool, waiting. Tom, for his part, stood still, contemplating the enormity of what he was about to do. The schoolboy jibes of wealth and poverty seemed a lifetime away.  
Tom held Abraxas’ neck carefully, his hands cold against Abraxas’ water-warmed skin. It all felt so intimate and he wondered whether Abraxas’ skin burned just as his had done. With his thumb he guided Abraxas’ chin upward, as soon as he touched him, Abraxas altered. Gone were the audacious smiles and outrageous eyes, gone were the tremulous hands and nervous breaths. In their place, an unnatural calmness, a stillness Tom had never seen before.  
In this light Abraxas was strangely beautiful, skin so pale that the lather was barely visible, so fragile and delicate, almost sickly under the green glow of the sun setting behind the tinted glass. There was an artificiality to that light, it made dreams configure themselves, aligning their visions with a poignant authenticity; it made reality seem a thousand miles away. That painted room was a haven, a trance built upon a fairy’s wing, a musing of a broken artist lost in the haze. It was a sanctuary where nothing was real, and Tom was free to think what he liked.  
He started slowly, edge sliding across Abraxas’ skin, silver against white, standing stark like concrete in the snow. Abraxas’ eyes were closed, and he almost looked relaxed, almost. Tom didn’t doubt for a second that Abraxas could stop him if he wanted, he just didn’t want to.  
When he held the carbon steel to the centre of Abraxas’ throat, he could feel Abraxas trembling. It should have been barely perceptible and yet somehow it was so noticeable, as if everything that Abraxas did had, all of a sudden, been put into high definition.  
At that moment Tom realised how easy it would be to kill him, frightfully easy, a simple slip of the wrist and his hands would be covered in blood. He could imagine the thin red line, blood spilling down Abraxas’ neck, staining rivulets into his skin. He’d never seen someone’s throat be cut before, and part of him craved to find out what it was like, to know what form this particular manifestation of death took. He wanted to break Abraxas, fracture his carefully constructed existence and he had a feeling Abraxas would be happy to be shattered into a thousand pieces by him.  
Tom could feel him swallow, throat bobbing. He just _had_ to run his nails across the damp skin, drawing the line he so desperately wanted to slice open. As he did so, Abraxas tilted his head back just a little further, exposing his neck, almost daring him to do it, daring him to really break something, daring him to give in to the decadent temptation. Tom snatched away his hand from that pearly neck before he risked doing what they both knew he couldn’t undo. Abraxas exhaled, shoulders rising and falling, and the moment was over.  
Tom found his hands shook a little after that, they still ached to slit the skin and discover whether Abraxas bled mortal blood, or whether garnets and rubies would spill from his body. So, Tom couldn’t help but deliberately cut just below Abraxas’ jaw. Abraxas winced but said nothing, not even raising his hand to wipe away the blood. They both knew Abraxas could heal the cut if he wanted, but Tom also knew he wouldn’t, he’d keep it in a strange display of sentimentality, the blemish that connected them, and linked them, and united them. So, neither of them touched the slow dribble of blood that oozed down Abraxas’ neck, standing out, lurid, against his white skin. 

When he was finished Tom handed Abraxas the towel but didn’t take his hands off Abraxas’ shoulders. He liked the feeling of Abraxas’ skin under his hands, the slenderness of his bones, the delicacy of his muscles. Tom had never wanted to run his hands all over someone quite as much as he wanted to now. He wanted to touch Abraxas, wanted to touch his mouth, his neck, his thighs. He wanted to taste the money dripping from those lips, feel the neck that whose every vein was choked with diamonds, explore those soft thighs as white as chalk but so much more valuable. His knuckles began to trace Abraxas’ spine, bump, bump, bump, over the bones that protruded from the papery skin. He stopped when his fingers hit the towel. Abraxas was so still, waiting suspended in the moment, hoping hopeless thoughts. Tom could sense them, suffusing the room with a childlike desperation. He didn’t do what Abraxas wanted him to, he never had, and honestly thought he never would. They had been playing this game for years now, dancing a foot apart, so close but never touching. Abraxas just controlling his infatuation with him, and Tom just controlling his own fascination with the world Abraxas came from. Though until this moment, he’d never thought about crossing that silver studded line before, never wondered what it would be like to kiss Abraxas’ morganite mouth, but now… he almost wanted to. It was confusing, worrying, disturbing even. He shouldn’t want to waste his time lying with a silver-coated socialite, and yet that was exactly what he wanted to do.  
He realised then that Abraxas was still silent, motionless, frozen in a second, not daring to breathe. He also realised his hand was still hooked around Abraxas’ neck, fingers lightly stroking his collarbone, nails digging into the hollow, fingertips caressing the bone. He snapped his hand away and for a moment his eyes met Abraxas’ in the mirror. He left the room before Abraxas could say anything. 

Tom sat on Abraxas’ bed, holding his book but not reading. He couldn’t read, not when Abraxas was in the next room looking absolutely gorgeous. He sighed, he shouldn’t be thinking of his associate like that, but that look in Abraxas’ eyes, such complete devotion, an allegiance, a loyalty that made him dizzy. Shaking his head, he tried to read, tried to ignore the feeling like he had so many times before. He turned his attention to the words, forcing himself to read line after line, understanding nothing. Every so often there was a word, a simple phrase: _diamond dust_ and all he could see were Abraxas eyes. _Green fluorite_ , Abraxas’ skin under the green glow. _Opal_ , Abraxas’ teeth when he smiled. He put his book down and looked up.  
Abraxas was across the room, leaning on the doorframe, fully dressed, hair crudely dried and brushed back, he was watching, expressionless. He looked disgustingly attractive, and disgustingly wealthy, and disgustingly desirable. Abraxas approached slowly, eyes fixed on him, cautiously he perched on the edge of the bed. There were only two feet between them and Tom could smell Abraxas’ aftershave. He raised his chin to be level with Abraxas’ eyes, “what?”  
“You’re in my bed?” Abraxas said quietly, a simple statement of fact with no implication or expectations surrounding it.  
“I am _on_ your bed.”  
“Any reason?”  
Tom swallowed, there had to be a thousand implicit reasons that he had sat here and not anywhere else, but now his brain couldn’t find a single one. “Would you rather I wasn’t?”  
Abraxas shook his head. He was looking for words he couldn’t find and now his mouth was just making shapes. He leaned in closer as if dispelling the distance would dispel all that the distance had stood for.  
So, close he smelled nice, fresh and cold, like a pool in a mountain forest; floral and fragrant and almost feminine. But there was something dark lurking just below the surface, money was a lovely leviathan: irresistible, inescapable and inevitable. For so long Tom had paid no attention to gnawing inside him, the near physical ache that occurred whenever Abraxas was around. But it was so obvious now, painfully so, he couldn’t ignore it any longer.  
Tom was the one who closed the gap between them, taking Abraxas’ mouth in his own, his hand holding that neck made of pearl. Abraxas leaned in, lips so insistent, kissing him like he was starving, and perhaps he was, perhaps this was five years passion finally finding its way into the world. 

Abraxas pushed him back into the swathing mass of pillows, lips sloppy and tongue slack, tasting him like this was last day alive. Abraxas was the one to undo Tom’s shirt buttons, the one to strip himself of his own shirt, the one to spread Tom’s legs and position himself between them. That morganite mouth against his neck, and delicate hands all over him; touching, exploring, learning. Tom learnt then, when Abraxas took a minute to look up at him, their eyes meeting, what it was that he wanted. It wasn’t the money, it wasn’t even Abraxas, it was the need in his eyes, the desperation inextricably tangled with devotion, like paramours in a poisonous embrace. Abraxas saw him as an idol and a god and a lover, and he would be a fool not to fall in love with the compositions of inordinate power that Abraxas’ devotions would give him.  
Tom propped himself up, pulling away from Abraxas’ lips. For a second there was fear in Abraxas’ eyes, a terror that he had already lost what he had only just got a taste of. Tom smirked twisting his legs, disentangling himself from Abraxas before pushing _him_ against the pillows. Abraxas smiled and dropped his head back, finally getting to experience what Tom assumed was probably his deepest fantasy. He kissed Abraxas again because wanted to feel that desperation, that bone-deep desire, that hunger that was tearing Abraxas apart now that he had gotten a hint of what had always been forbidden to him. He wanted to know that Abraxas also had that ache he couldn’t satisfy, the gnawing inside him that nothing would sate.  


Tom leaned over him, body heavy, hands light, trying to understand what was so mesmerising about Abraxas, trying to understand why he was so captivated by this creature who should have been just one of the masses. Lying so close to him, Tom found out Abraxas was so good to smell with his fancy scents, and so good to taste with his jewel coated tongue, and just so good to look with his hair still damp, and his skin so pale, and eyes so clear. It was as if he was a freshly cut diamond just waiting for a purpose, and Tom _was_ that purpose. He was the chain or the bracelet or the ring that needed a sparkling centre-piece before it could be outstanding.  
There was something magnetic about hearing Abraxas moan, watching his chest rise and fall and rise and fall, when all Tom was doing was unfastening his belt; undoing the clasp with a clink and sliding the leather from around his waist. Briefly, Abraxas looked up at him, eyes bright asking him if this was really what he wanted. In his mind Tom hesitated, wondering whether this _was_ what he wanted, but his body continued regardless. It was so easy to quell Abraxas’ worries. So easy to have him under the covers, lying on his stomach, one hand gripping a pillow, mouth repeating a mantra of promises, that Tom didn’t doubt would all be fulfilled if he kept playing his part. But that part now felt blurred. The short time stretched out into an endless continuum and he could longer see where the pretence ended, and he began. For a moment he was scared that he was drowning, that he had plunged too deep into this opulent sphere and now he had fallen under its spell. For a second, he thought perhaps he was deceiving himself, and that this was love, but it wasn’t. Deep in his heart, he knew, he didn’t love Abraxas, at least not the person. He only loved Abraxas’ money infested heart and the pretty shell that held it, at least, that was what he hoped the gnawing in his stomach was. That was what he hoped the endless ache inside was. A desire for money was so much easier to comprehend than any alternative interpretation.  
Nonetheless whatever that throbbing was for is was assuaged as he left white fingerprints in Abraxas’ skin and he contented himself with fucking Abraxas painfully slowly. Learning what angle made him groan and spread his legs that much wider and his breathing so worn and needy. How rolling his hips made Abraxas clench the fabric tighter, and how his hands caressing the curve of Abraxas’ spine made him relax and breathe a little slower. Tom liked listening to all the little noises Abraxas made, he liked feeling the heaving of his torso, like how Abraxas positioned his hips to have his own hand between his thighs. Tom liked his hands wrapped around those fragile fingers, liked sliding both their shaking hands back and forth and back and forth and back and forth until Abraxas was moaning and shuddering and mumbling his name.  
Tom let Abraxas lie there for a while, face buried in the pillow, breathing too fast, while he himself continuing to smooth his fingers along Abraxas’ spine, bump, bump, bump along the ridges. Trying to understand how a few touches with fumbling hands, had made them so much more than what they had been, and what it meant now that it was all over.  


Tom had never wanted anyone, they were a needless distraction that slowed the progress of his elaborate conceptualisations. But if he _had_ to have someone, he liked that it was Abraxas, with his quartz skin and diamond eyes. When Abraxas finally turned his head to face him, Tom just _had_ to kiss him again, just had to get another taste of that hunger no amount of money could ever satiate. It was a wonderful feeling to know Abraxas was hooked on him already and he absolutely loved it. Loved looking into Abraxas eyes and seeing the devotion and understanding and absolute reverence. Somehow it matched, in a weird twisted way, the dulled ache within himself. He had a respect for Abraxas, an understanding. They both knew they had been craving something and now they knew that hunger had been for each other.  
They lay there in silence, Tom’s fingers drawing patterns on Abraxas’ pretty neck.  
“Do you love me?” asked Abraxas quietly, not turning to meet his eyes.  
“Yes,” said Tom equally quietly, part of him at least felt like he meant it.  
Abraxas smiled, “you’re lucky I like liars, Tom,” he said getting up.  
Tom watched him walk away and he couldn’t help but smile: where was the need for love when the hunger was satisfied? Where was the need for love when the lies shrouded them in gorgeous ecstasy? Where was the need for love when he had a Malfoy on a tether made of pearls?


End file.
